Only the Strong can Belong
by krispielee
Summary: A tradition of one of the most bloodthirsty tribes of the archipelago. The Berserker Tribe made a point to destroy weakness before it could take root. Back when Oswald the Agreeable was Oswald the Antagonistic, hiccups, or those born to early or too small, were disposed of as infants: set off to sea, never to be seen again. What did they care what happened to them afterwords? OC
1. She was Born Early

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

 **This idea is mostly based on a practice in the books (getting rid of the weakness in the tribe); but since most people here probably haven't read them, you don't really have to to get this (even though the books are hella good, 10/10, would recommend).**

 **If you like this I also have two other HTTYD stories on here. If you want to. You don't have to ykno, whateves doesnt even matter to me. . ... .**

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The sky was gray there. It had recently stopped raining, leaving the docks slippery and the sand on the shores smooth and undisturbed. Several pairs of boots stomped across the pier, loading and unloading goods from their ships as they prepared for another journey out. Someone pulled the most recent catch of squirming gray sea-life from the craft and onto relatively dry land. The sailors were ready to distribute the catch to those who could afford it.

The smell of rain was still heavy, only partially blocked by the sounds of children shouting and running throughout the village. A dog barked somewhere nearby.

Despite being one of the more barbaric and bloodthirsty tribes in the archipelago, at least while they weren't fighting or talking about fighting or talking to anyone they had a history of fighting, Berserkers shared the calm normalcy as the rest of the tribes on the day-to-day. Granted: their drunken brawls were much more likely to get out of hand and the haranguing in the war room was generally ended with the execution of a member after becoming too. . . _disrespectful_ , but Berserkers appreciated the familiarity of other Berserkers.

Even the most cold-blooded warriors in the tribe would often nod a greeting to another member they passed along the same path.

Even the worst of the barbaric tribes had moments of goodness. Moments of humanity.

They were _people_.

Members of the tribe will forgive each other of mistakes made as long as they met the proper repercussions. Strict traditions had to be followed. Upheld. _Respected_.

Every Berserker knew this, from the youngest child to the oldest great warrior.

 _Only the strong can belong._

The tradition went in and out of style depending on how the chief in power enforced it. Occasionally a soft chief would come along, allowing it to be up to the parents to decide what to do with their baby; but a leader like that rarely lasted long.

Oswald the Antagonistic wasn't a soft chief. He was a _Berserker_ , and he would not have any weakness to be exploited. The weak here were slaughtered long ago. A great shame fell to those reluctant to follow the rules laid out for them since their kind first set sail all those centuries ago.

Hiccups, runts born too small or too early, were to be disposed of. End of story.

Most everyone in the tribe enjoyed this practice. Slaughtering the smallest lambs as babies put a rare treat of delicious meat on the table that afternoon. No one would want the runt of their dog's newest litter as a guard for their home, just toss it in the river. Chickens born under a certain size would never grow large enough to produce good eggs, a savory snack for later that evening.

Everyone agreed.

It was the way they did things.

 _Only the strong can belong_.

It became much more of a chore when the occasional human baby was born so wrong.

They often saw a new mother giving birth to a hiccup as bad luck, and the only way to get rid of it would be to get rid of the baby.

To refuse to do so - - the only other option would be banishment, a choice that almost always lead to the death of both of them.

Many new fathers took care of it themselves immediately, lest their wives get attached and think twice. It would be better for everyone. Just deal with the problem. Over and done with and the tribe would think nothing of it in a year.

The tribe would forgive the parents for the weakness they produced.

This new mother had thought so as she stood on the beach a stone's throw from the docks. The squirming pink thing in her arms once again pulled its arm free to reach out and grab onto its provider.

The new mother had put it off this long.

She had given birth four months ago. Two months earlier than she should have. The thing she produced tugged at her heart even now, soiling what she had so been looking forward to during her pregnancy.

It would always come to this. She knew. The thing in her arms only lasted as long as it did because she wanted its father to know and see their mistake for himself.

The father that had gone on the expedition against the scourged Dragon Island with many other fearless warriors of the tribe. She convinced the chief to let her keep the infant around, to let her husband see for himself when he returned.

A month went by, no sign of the expedition.

Another and the Berserkers prepared, expected their return.

The third month and the new mother began to worry. She would stand by the shore and keep watch for them, hours at a time. Her ears were deaf against the crying of the thing beside her, the thing she so easily resented.

She left it alone for hours on end, leaving it soiled in its own filth. A way of punishing its existence for stealing her _real_ baby from her.

This thing couldn't possibly be hers - - her husbands.

Small and weak. Half the size of a normal Berserker, looking ready to die any day now.

It was an insult.

She pinched the pink exposed skin hard enough it whined and then cried, desperately wagging its arms against her in a futile attempt to push her away.

Four months was the understood time: the longest a ship had been gone to fight the dragon enemy and still returned alive.

One-hundred and twenty-two days she had kept this thing alive.

She grabbed a hold of the basket she'd prepared. The wooden cradle, egg-shaped and hollow. The mother placed the red-faced weakness she'd been carrying with her inside. The blanket it had contaminated with its existence wrapped tightly around like a gift to the sea, brandishing the mother's own crude stitching of a Skrill in flight, ready to slaughter his enemies. As with all cradles made for hiccups, it was waterproof, with their tribal crest carved into the side.

The new mother prayed the Skrill would come alive and take the burden from her.

She carried the basket down to the shore, walking past the fishermen and spare warriors. She nodded greetings to the other women she passed on her path down to the sea and walked off and away from the pier. The undisturbed shore, sand slipping under her boots, marking an indent as she made her way to the water's edge and placed her grievance inside.

The new mother watched as the ocean's tide swept it away from her, turning it so as it went, blocking the pink monster from her pale eyes. She would never have to look it in the face again. No Berserker would never remind her of this year.

Forgiven and forgotten.

She would pick up her sword and go back to the fighting, taking up against the dragon enemy, as she had done before she married.

The sky was gray. It had recently stopped raining, but she had time to get some work done.


	2. He was Late Hatching

**Thanks to DragonRiderNT for the review! Spoilers, the baby is not Heather.**

 **Bam, next chapter!**

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Her egg this year was late.

Her sisters in the pride already had their clutches hatch from their nesting trees. The custom of their kind, laying their glowing offspring high in branches, covered by twigs and leaves and mud so they couldn't be so easily seen and taken by predators. They had all been laid at the same time, but this year hers had decided to stay in the egg a little while longer.

The mother Changewing latched onto the side of the tree, blended in so only the experienced eyes of her trusted sisters could only see her. The foam over her pupils kept them hidden with her scales while still allowing her to observe everything around. She picked apart the dancing colors of her late egg.

She supposed he must be shy. Waiting, patient and careful.

Taking his time.

In the beginning, the mother had been excited beyond belief at the sounds of cracking shells peeping open to the world. Her eyes had watched as her sister's egg hatched, the new baby gliding down clumsily from the top branches and to the forest floor below. The shells of the egg were still stuck to the hatchling in some places. She would be a good leader for her siblings as seen by the headstrong way before she jumped from her branch and into the forest below. Another baby followed a few hours after, not even fully emerged from her egg. The next daughter emerged only some after that. The last had hatched later in that night. As usual, all within a few hours of each other.

The adoring mother Changewing watched her own egg patiently.

He could take all the time he needed, she would be ready. The week she spent waiting, reassuring herself over and over that the glowing hadn't gone out and that her egg was still very much alive, viable. She had thought over and over the possibilities before she reasoned that he must be a son.

Sons were rarer in her kind. Hatching later, growing slower. Overall smaller, different in color. Slower to anger than daughters were, but no less important to the pride.

They traditionally took care of the eggs, hatchlings, while the mothers were out hunting and fighting and patrolling, stopped bickering among others, keeping the peace and helping the others grow closer together, young and old. She would be proud to have a son.

Her attention drifted from her egg as she turned her gaze to the other young. One particular neonate caught her eye. The largest of the little ones, already getting the hang of her acid spit and decimating flowers here and there. She bounded around with her sisters in toe, tackling each other and learning to move together as a team.

The mother had been with her own sisters since hatching, and would likely be with them until she died. This was the third clutch they had hatched together, but she didn't love them any less. They were all her daughters, all of her sisters would care for her son. Together they would raise their bairns up together, teaching the next generation to hunt and fight before they went off on their way.

Changewings were a tightly nit community. Family, the pride, was everything.

Their clutch would decide themselves who would be the lead. Traditionally the first to hatch would take up the mantle, as had been done with her own pride, but occasionally a brood turned away from history and follow another path.

Nevertheless, the sisterhood would be together forever.

They were born together, and they would die together.

The mother Changewing's eyes turned back to her egg.

The presence of a brother would only bring them closer together. The mediating body of a calmer son made raising daughters easier. None of the three clutches this sisterhood laid before had a son, but the knowledge was ingrained in them. The same way they knew how to fly or spit acid or breathe fire.

She let out a breath of smoke from her large nostrils, the tendrils of leafy vines peaking from behind her head flowed in a new breeze. It relaxed her. The sun was near its highest point now. A wonderful time to bathe in its heat.

There was a low call to her right, hooting like an owl and drawing her from her hidden place in the tree. One of her closest sisters was there, head tilted as she opened a toothy mouth to call her sound.

The mother Changewing barked back a friendly greeting as she disengaged herself from the tree. Her lengthy claws gripped the bark tightly, leaving sharp claw marks in her place as she crawled her way to the ground. Passing by, she gave one of the smaller hatchlings an affectionate sniff, bumping her small body with the older dragon's nose as she made her way by.

Her sister was growling encouragement, eyes drifting to the solitary egg in the nest and back to the mother in front of her. Then she turned a wing to the forest, tendrils twitching as she silently prodded a question.

 _Hunt?_

The mother Changewing thought about it. She had taken up watching the young for her sisters in one solitary space for the last week, making sure they didn't wander or get hurt or into too vicious of fights. Her sisters had taken care of the hunting, but there was nothing like the rush she felt when chasing down a boar herd. Even spending her time on the shore, drifting through the water in search of a softer and slimier fish for their young was preferable to this.

The mother Changewing was _aching_ to fly again, after her week watching her son's egg, to speed through the forest after a fleeing creature and take its feet out from under it by spitting her destructive acids.

She turned to look over her shoulder at her son. There were no peep holes. No curious sounds to be heard from inside.

He was late. There would be no telling when he was to hatch other than just waiting for his egg-tooth to finally poke through.

The mother let out a sigh through her nose, bursting with smoke from her pent-up emotions.

She would be patient. He could take all the time he needed, and she would gladly wait an eternity for him.

The mother Changewing turned back to her sister and barked out a reply.


	3. Drifting Between

**Thank you Pontiger27 for the review! I love you pal!**

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The crying was what drew them in.

Their hunting had only just started, the two moving their way through the trees to sniff out a nice pack they could break up together. The thought of a nice, juicy boar made the acid in her mouth drip more heavily, but the sisters hadn't caught any fresh scent yet.

She had been stretching her legs, sweeping her way by to the shore and out of the trees for a proper flight. They were bottled up from the long week in waiting, itching to be let free. She basked in the sun, turning her gaze down into the sea in case she could spot any fish closer to the surface. If she couldn't catch a boar or a wolf in the forest, she might as well catch something smoother and easier to eat for the young back at the nest.

At first, she hadn't noticed the small basket floating in the sea. She had been paying so much attention to what was below the water levels; she didn't know it was there until the wailing reached her ears. The mother Changewing's head whipped around, eyes focusing on the basket immediately.

She dived lower for a better look. The bubbling motherly instincts inside her recognizing the unprotected infant as something to be cared for. She was bursting with it from the week of waiting for her son to emerge from his nest.

Many of the week old daughters of the pride were past the point of crying at every little thing, making her need futile. From bursting with love for her son with nothing to express it to. It's unsettling to mother nothing.

The flaps of her wings so close rocked the small carriage more, only furthering the horrific screams echoing inside and intensifying the feeling in her gut. Her sister had only just now arrived at her side, confusion as to why she wasn't fishing morphed into curiosity at the bundle of suffering rocking so dangerously in the sea.

It took no hesitation at all for the mother Changewing to swoop down to grab the basket in her long claws. The gentleness of her care left no mark on the craft and kept the shaking to a minimum during the short flight back to dry land. It was easy to place the baby down on the forest floor. It was less so to take a peek at the creature inside that was making enough noise to attract the entire forest to their position.

Immediately, the sisters purred at the infant. Low growling in the back of their throats to try to calm it down. As with all dragon species, the action heated their bodies ever so slightly. Meant to comfort their children if they were too fussy. The consistency of a comforting sound often lulled them to sleep after a hard day of tears.

It was hard to calm this one.

The smell alone made the sisters understand.

Rocking back and forth so much at sea had made the hatchling sick, throwing up a milky white liquid that covered much of her chest and face. Eyeing the creature closer, they became even more curious. The two sisters had never seen a viking hatchling so young before.

Why was it out in the water?

Perhaps it had built this little ship itself to go fishing? They knew vikings set sail on wooden contraptions like this, bringing back net-loads of fish to the rest of their kind.

The sisters had never seen viking eggs before. Perhaps this was one? It was enormous compared to a fully grown viking, but maybe that was the reason they survived so long without fire or claws or sharp teeth? They had a tenancy to create their own metal claws and things that seemed to do just fine.

It seemed irresponsible for one so young to be out on its own, left floating at sea before she even hatched all the way. The mother Changewing dipped her head down and licked the milky substance from the baby's cheeks, replacing it with a layer of heated, slimy saliva. She made a point to keep the acidity at a harmless level. Unlike the human saliva, which would cool down after a few seconds, the dragon's residue kept her face warm for several minutes before drying up.

The affection calmed the baby somewhat, but it soon became clear to the sisters she had been alone at sea for a long time.

She was _hungry_.

Without a word, the sister Changewing flew off towards the sea. The mother lowered her head down, amazed by the soft creature beside her, before gently picking up the basket in her claws and cradling it against her flat belly. The tendrils along her head perked this way and that as she made cooing noises to the distressed baby.

It did not take long for her to decide to keep her new daughter.

She must have been the same age as the rest of the clutch, already lost to her birth parents. It was a mother Changewing's responsibility to give her hatchlings the best chance. Variety in a clutch made them that much more likely to survive, strengths and weaknesses to survive together in their pride. Her son would already triple the productivity of his broodmates when he finally hatched.

Surely, a viking sister would only farther that number.

The sister Changewing returned shortly, been fueled by the need to protect their newest charge. She presented the baby with three flickering gray fish to choose from, though a hatchling of this size was likely only to need one. The mother Changewing turned the basket around in her arms to show the hatchling the offering.

This took some trial and error on their part.

The sisters nudging the fish closer to their new daughter. Replacing one after the other in the basket, only to earn themselves more tears. Eventually they attempted to feed their girl as birds do. The mother Changewing taking the smallest of the fish into her mouth and chewing it up evenly so there were no large or sharp bits to get hurt with.

The saliva of their mouths made it easier to heat the food up for her, easier to convince her to swallow.

She ate it this time with little fuss, being fed small bites in smaller intervals. It would be tedious to many other dragons. But the care of a mother over her child went a long way. Shortly after the first bite, the sister Changewing flew back to the sea to get more for the rest of the nest.

Feeding the pride together helped with bonding, a good way of introducing their newest sister. It might would take effort to integrate the viking hatchling into the rest of the clutch, but the mother Changewing was determined.

They couldn't very well leave the baby to die, could they?

The only answer was to carry her new daughter home.

The mother Changewing noticed early that her newest daughter's large wooden egg could not fit in the nesting trees as natural-born Changewings could. She sat on the forest floor, hind legs bunched up under her; and her body sitting vertical as she held the new arrival in her front talons. Glooming yellow eyes flickered at the infant's sleeping form, the purr still vibrating deep inside her thorax.

One of the other daughters clambered over at the new, unfamiliar scent. The lead of the clutch, largest and first to hatch. The most headstrong and curious of them all. Her three sisters trailed behind her, ready to decide if the newest addition was a friend or meal.

The mother Changewing gave a bark to her girls, even earning the attention of her own sisters, whose attention ranged from intense curiosity to a vague interest to overall indifference.

The largest of the hatchlings crawled over the mother Changewing's side, perching on her shoulder to peer down into the wooden egg where her newest sister lived.

Pink. Squishy. Soft.

The fierce baby dragon inched closer, giving her a close sniff and taking in the scent the mother Changewing left behind after licking her cheek clean. She already smelled like one of them, only overshadowed by a crisp reminder of the sea and fish odor.

Dark brown eyes opened, blinking away the fogginess of sleep before focusing on the faces before her.

The large orange and red snout, the numerous sharp teeth poking up from the bottom lips and two enormous horns sticking from either side of their heads. The baby gave an unintelligible gurgle at them.

This noise took the viking girl's scaled sister by surprise, repeating her own growling gurgle she often made with her clutch-mates in response.

The soft infant lifted her hands up to reach for the other baby, earning herself a soft look from the mother Changewing. Her pupils grew larger, eyelids closing ever so slightly as she smiled.

At the sudden influx of hatchlings surrounding her, the mother decided it would be best to let the egg nest close to the floor, surrounded by her sisters at night. Sleeping together then.

Breathing in each other's scent as they dreamed helped become closer as a sisterhood. The mother Changewing lifted her head to the sky, noting the subtle change in hue and filing it away in her mind.

Night would arrive soon.

At her shift in her seat, the baby dragons fluttered from their perches. Whining reached the mother's ears as the girls lost sight of their kin, but she quickly quieted them by nesting the egg deep into the roots of a large tree, one not very far from her son's tree. She would be well within sight as the mother Changewing rested in her own nest.

As soon as she stepped away from the younger sisterhood, the baby dragons dove in. The eldest landing on the top of the egg and hanging down to peer inside while the other three perched on all other sides. Their heads tilted this way and that, chirping different noises here and there while the darling viking girl giggled and wagged her fat arms at them.

Tails and wings and tendrils wagged this way and that. It was nearly impossible for the mother Changewing to see through them.

The sounds of laughter eased any worries she might have had, and she turned her attention back on her own egg.

He had the world waiting for him. Her fang-filled smile was soft as her eyes became hypnotized by the burring of colors. Patient. His sisters would keep him safe and together they would grow to be the strongest clutch her sisterhood had raised.

The sun was setting, but she was happy.


	4. Bonding

**Chapter four.**

 **I did it are you proud of me**

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The darling viking girl hadn't left her egg on her own in this time with the Changewings. She leaned up in her seat, rolled over as she pleased, but never could bring herself to do any more. The mother Changewing contemplated taking action for an afternoon before she decided to help the baby out of the wooden shell herself. It wasn't good for any creature to stay in one place for so long.

She enjoyed having something small and soft and giggly to cuddle against her chest. It was much easier to have the soft daughter sit on the ground during feeding times and removing her didn't seem to distress her at all.

She didn't seem unhappy, exactly. Nervous, but she laughed a strange sound at her sisters when they played around her.

The other hatchlings were quick to approve the newest addition. Purring at her, vibrating their tendrils in glee, and cuddling close to her at night to conserve body heat. However, like any clutch, there were setbacks.

No matter how much the mother Changewing adored her newest daughter, her softness came at a disadvantage. Her sisters were much more mobile, so much more likely to run and jump and were already gliding and flying short distances on their own. The soft one wouldn't even sit up without help, mostly just staying put wherever the mother Changewing had left her.

This wasn't always bad, her sisters had taken notice to this and made a point not to push her too far. Together, they learned to compensate for the weakest link of the pride. Games of chase and camouflage faded out when their sister didn't take part and gently faded into their preferred game of mimicry. Growls here and there, exchanging them this way and that for the cooing noises their soft sister made.

But accidents happen.

The viking baby had been chewing on her blanket. She had an affinity for it. Every moment her mother Changewing turned her back her daughter had something in her mouth, teething. Exploring the world with her mouth.

She wasn't very interested in what was happening around her, never noticing her spry siblings running rampant around her in a game of chase. The hatchlings were too young to think broadly enough on what it was they were doing. It wasn't on purpose.

Knocking into her full force had been an accident but it left the baby crying loudly. Blood dripped from her chin from a large cut there. The breath knocked harshly from her lungs. Her hands had also taken a hit, leaving a few scratches on the heels. The mother Changewing rushed over to comfort her immediately, wincing at the sounds her daughter was making.

The large mother curled herself around her soft daughter, using her body warmth as a tool of comfort.

She let out a light growl at the other hatchlings, knowing full well it was an accident but still worried.

At once, the mother Changwing licked at the cut on her daughter's face. Changewings themselves had very delicate skin compared to other dragon species, the price they pay to have such extraordinary stealth and skill at disappearing. The dragons had evolved to heal fairly quickly, usually egged on by their tongues cleaning the wounds.

The mother Changewing did her best to pass this to her viking daughter by licking the wound for her, helping clean it and speed up the process on her own.

It took an eternity, but eventually her cries quieted down to whimpers and her sisters were brave enough to crawl forward to comfort her themselves. Their mother's tongue warmed the girl up and helped her relax again in no time.

The softness and immobility was weak. It was difficult for the mother Changewing to ever learn how she was meant to care for her daughter. She had never had a hatchling like this one before.

This clutch the Changewings were raising was proving to be very difficult.

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Dragons, as a whole, were comfortable in darkness. Even as babies, it wasn't usually frightening for them to spend time in the dark. There were exceptions to the rule, but many species had at least some night vision. Though it may not be perfect. Changewings specifically could alternate between nocturnal and diurnal easily, depending on the pride and what best suited their needs or preferences.

The thought hadn't even crossed the son's mind. He wasn't even conscious of the difference considering he had nothing to compare it to. He had been content growing in his little cocoon of warmth.

Until he wasn't.

And he finally decided it was time to come out, join the world.

The sharp development on the tip of his snout helped his way out, pushing this way and that as he finally began to force his way through the protected exterior of his shell and into the cool air outside.

He was vaguely aware of cooing around him, several sources making noises here and there at his obvious struggle to completely exit his comfortable home. His head poked out and his eyes squinted at the sudden light piercing them. Several needle-like fangs appeared as he opened his mouth wide in something that might resemble a yawn.

The mother Changewing was in the tree with him immediately, her head resting on his branch as she watched him. Her pupils widened, encompassing nearly her entire eye, as she watched his first movements outside of his bright and colorful egg.

Her son caught sight of her, head tilted, almost confused, before he let out a large sneeze, blowing smoke everywhere.

The mother Changewing blew a puff of smoke from her nostrils in response, following his movements as he turned to look down his branch at the forest floor.

He jumped without hesitation, gliding his way down on his small wings.

The newly hatched ones could not fly long distances properly, but a short glide was well within their abilities.

He gave out little chirps as he went, catching sight of his sisters as they took notice of his arrival. They barked and hooted and growled different sounds, already inviting him to their game of mimicry they loved so much.

The brother landed awkwardly, without grace, only narrowly missing his sisters who were over double his size now.

The elder Changewings watched on as their brood finally closed off together. The six of them had finally hatched and gathered together. It took longer than most clutches, but the mothers had high hopes for their children. They would grow up strong together and cover each other's weaknesses fantastically.

The viking girl mewled giggling sounds to her new brother, reaching out and patting onto his thin horns. He tilted his head this way and that, examining his softest sister closely, moving his head closer to sniff her breath and small tufts of white-sandy hair.

His oldest, and largest, sister pawed at his wings slightly. She carefully pulled the claws back so not to scratch him. As a newborn, his skin was still unused to the harshness of the land outside his egg, and it would take a few days before he was resilient to play fights, but she was very curious about his different color.

His fellow reptilian sisters crowded around him to get a good grasp of his scent, embed it in their minds to remember forever, and skilled eyes roaming over his bright green body and memorizing the various shades. Some of the sisters had been born with a few lighter green shades, but within the three weeks between their hatch and his, they had already faded out and replaced with the warm oranges and reds. Unlike Nadders or Gronckles or any other number or dragon kinds, there was not a lot of variation to the species' color.

His pale green color wouldn't fade like his sisters.

The viking sister had found it especially fascinating, reaching out and babbling growling noises and running her hands down the side of his face. She steered clear of the needle-pointed teeth, from past encounters with her sisters that left her crying, but she enjoyed the soft feeling of his scales under her hands. She laughed at his face, her dark brown eyes resembled a dragon's wide pupils, making her all the more friendly and innocent looking. He mimicked her laugh to the best of his ability, smiling back at her.

The elder Changewings were ecstatic, finally watching their new brood come together. There was nothing like it in the life of a Changewing than watching the intense bond take root. The six of them would stay together for the rest of their lives. Nothing could break the familial bond Changewings made with their prides.

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 **Review?**


	5. Softest Sister

**It's been a while. But to be clear I am not abandoning this fic, or at least I have no plans to.**

 **I've been working on some original stuff recently, which is a big step for me writing wise, and thats why I haven't updated on any of my fics in the last few months.**

 **I'm really sorry to who asked for an update several months ago, but I haven't forgotten about this.**

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The softest of his sisters grew at an unusual rate. It took her a month before she finally began to crawl after them and play along with their more physically demanding games. The siblings would often practice branching: jumping along the low hanging parts of their nesting trees, much to her disappointment.

The green hatchling was confused as to why she wouldn't follow them; why she didn't have wings on her back like the rest of them. Perhaps she was just a late bloomer. Like him. Nevertheless, he kept her weaknesses in mind and would often call their other sisters back so they could continue their games on the forest floor.

He did his work to include her.

There was usually always one of the elder Changewings around at all times keeping an eye on them. Making sure none of them were hurt or wandered too far from their nests. The others returned in regular intervals bringing random assortments of fish and boar to eat. Not long after they finished their meal the hatchlings would lay down to sleep for the night, curling around together in a pile to keep warm. They were happy.

The pride moved around as the weather began to grow colder, and the younger Changewings' skins grew thicker and thicker to account for it.

The softest sister never lost her smooth and squishy layer, forcing her siblings to become more creative to keep her healthy and warm. The biggest of the sisters started sleeping in intervals, taking turns on who was at the bottom of the pile, soaking in the freezing touch it gave off.

It was fairly common for his bigger sisters to become impatient with her. She cried often in the night, keeping them all awake. She smelled different, and sometimes bad, and they always had to slow down to let her keep up with them.

Soon spring arrived. Normally their kind would have moved on from the camp they made, ready for their young to begin flying farther distances, but the elder mothers waited for her to catch up with them. And waited. And waited.

She never seemed to be able to chase after her brother and sisters.

But the Changewings were not a kind to abandon their familial bonds. The connection would be together until the day they died, and all that meant was they needed to accommodate for her natural born weaknesses.

So the elder mother Changewings decided to stay, fighting the instinctual nature inside. The same would have been done for any of their egg-hatchlings showing deformities, and she was one of them.

It was not an action made lightly.

It was not an action with no consequences.

The brother Changewing was less boar headed than his sisters. He was quieter. He wouldn't hiss and growl and snarl at the soft one when she cried in the night, but gently rest his head beside her and let the rumble of a purr in his throat calm her to her sleep. He would not pounce with delight at the meals their mothers brought home, but wait patiently until his sisters had their fill.

He did not spit his nearly perfected acid spray around the rocks and bushes of their homes just for experimentation.

He imitated his mothers, watching them when they lifted their heads at the sounds in the distance. He stayed on watch with his guarding mother, waiting for the hunting party to return.

The moments of quiet brought peace to his heart. Peace brought on by the comforting eyes of his mother glancing down at him, or nuzzling his side and wings.

The brother Changewing wasn't as thoughtless as his sisters.

He did not screech and snarl when the pack of viking warriors charged through their camp. He exercised the soft layer of thin scales over his hide, immediately stilling on his place on the rock and disappearing from sight. He sat silent, watching the flashes of his red sisters stream through the air and attempt to strike at the intruders.

His lips peeled apart slowly in a soundless growl, eyeing the form of a wide shouldered, broad, viking as he knocked his largest sister from the sky as though she were a fly. He jumped forward to her body quickly, brushing beside her as she got her bearings to urge her to camouflage herself from the onslaught.

They had never seen vikings before. Never so much leaving the safety of their camp to explore their island since their sister had taken up so much time to catch up with them.

But they were not the only ones to become engrossed in the fight. Their eyes thinned into tiny slits as the two siblings watched their mothers battle it out with the vikings.

The vikings who, though smaller and fleshier without scales, outnumbered them greatly.

The fight wasn't impossible. A mother lashing out and crushing a sword swinger here, another spitting enough acid to disintegrate a shield there. There were screeches and cries and yells from both side as each inflicted pain upon the other.

The brother was so distracted by it all, the flashing bodies, the clangs of their sharp weapons as they tried to swipe through the skin of his parents, and the smell, the horrible smell of blood and metal. He was overwhelmed, frightened, so focused on keeping hidden from view and keeping his sister from attempting to intervene. Barely able to count out the bodies, who was who.

He was only able to still when he saw the first of his family fall.

His sister, jaws clamped down hard on the bare arm of a viking, before being skewered through the middle on the end of a spear.

The perpetrator did not last a few seconds more. His throat, shoulder, legs. Anything bare that could be grabbed onto was, by sharp teeth long enough to tear right through him.

So focused were his eyes he did not notice the warmth beside him go missing. Not until he saw his largest sister helping once more in the battle.

There wasn't much he knew he could do. He was only half the size of his red sisters, and they were already in danger of being destroyed at the hands of the enemy.

But then he spotted it.

The pale skin of his softest, smallest, little sister. Her form cowering against the grey rocks across the battle, water was streaming down from her cheeks and staining them red; and now that he was listening for it, he could pick out the familiar cries from her throat.

For this, he did not hesitate.

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 **so this chapter got a little more bloody and violent.**

 **review to tell me what you think?**


	6. Hardened Brother

**So. this took a while. yeah.**

 **And it's SHORT**

 **cause i'm mean.**

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The son made his way through the battle, staying low to the ground, camouflaged and hidden fro the screeching vikings as they worked their way through slaughtering the mother Changewings. He stuck closely to the outside of the clearing, focusing intently on not being seen.

He was heading for his sister. His softest sister, sat crying and scared by the sounds of clashing metal and screams of pain. He reached her quickly, curling his body around her, trying to encourage her to crawl farther from the battle, to remain hidden among the leaves and bushes around them.

It did not seem to work, instead he listened helplessly as she continued to cry. He whined helplessly, feeling the same helpless dread, beginning to shake in his fear.

His sisters were being killed off, the mother Changewings could not protect them from the onslaught.

But he couldn't flee. His softest sister was in danger.

He didn't know any better. He was trying to protect her. His bright green scales were a giveaway, drawing the attention of one of the closer fighters. A viking man, spotting the acid-spitting hatchling, standing over what appeared to be a defenseless infant.

The viking charged instantly, axe raised right over his head as he aimed for the cowering dragon baby. The dragon who did not have a chance to react, who merely froze in the sights of the furious human warrior.

The viking was only a few paces away, ready to swing the next second and strike down the hatchling threat.

Then the son's mother jumped to his aid, forcing her body to act as a barrier and absorb the fatal blow herself. The mother Changewing let out a scream of pain as the axe embedded itself into the softer scales on her side. As a last-ditch effort, she snapped her sharpened, dagger-like fangs into his arm, letting the deadly acid spill over and into his flesh before the wound finally took its toll.

The fourth mother Changewing fell, the battle was nearing its end. The last of them let out a hurt cry at the sight of her pride falling, and she was forced to make some quick decisions.

The last mother Changewing jumped back from a swinging sword, snarling at the invading vikings once more, before letting out a loud echoing call. A call to the only surviving of their brood. The final daughter Changewing still left unscathed and her brother straightened up from his place hiding behind his mother's corpse, both raised their heads upon hearing it

It was a retreating call. The mother Changewing had made the decision.

Leave their dead, flee from the fight.

The last of the daughters took flight at once, flying up and over the heads of the vikings trying to kill her. The son was more hesitant, still shaking from the sight of his birth mother jumping in front of the killing blow.

Then he turned to look at his soft sister, breathing in her scent once more (though he could never forget the scent of a member of his pride). It had a twinge of salt to it now, from the tears streaming from her eyes. Her crying seemed louder now that the fighting was dying down.

They would be caught again soon.

Then he heard the call again, more frantic, impatient.

He was running out of time.

He had to choose. He could stay and try to defend his soft sister, or he could flee and save himself.

His eyes closed for a second, replying the sight of his strongest sister fall dead with the spear through her middle, then of his mother and the way she screeched in pain before finally falling silent.

Then he heard the call again, more distant as the mother Changewing dodged arrows from her place in the sky, hovering there with his other sister.

If he did not leave, she was sure to die. A Changewing cannot survive without their pride. The mother Changewings were down to one, doomed surely. She must know this.

Then his yellow eyes turned to his sister fluttering in the breeze, but they weren't. As long as there were two of them, they could survive.

So he made his decision, refusing to spare his favorite, his softest, sister another glace as he bunched up his wings to take flight. He dodged the few arrows sent his way, spinning through the air as he fled with his last mother.

His soft sister was not old enough to understand. She continued to cry as he flew away from her, and she continued to cry right up until she was picked up from the ground.

Held against a chest, so different from the smooth scales she was used to. Hair brushed into her face, itching her nose, making her squirm even more. Her noised quieted into sniffles as she was gently rocked, and her eyes opened again to look up.

The fighting was over, the sounds and screams were gone, replaced with the smell of blood in the air. But the sight of the one carrying her brought forward a strange distant dream to her attention. A memory of very long ago.

It had been so long since she had seen one of her own kind before. She'd forgotten they existed.

She did not understand the change when she was brought home with the vikings. She did not understand that the only mother figure she had known had been killed 'protecting' her. She just stared up at the figure holding her, focusing intently on the Changewing-like horns emerging from the sides of his head.


	7. Vikings and their Tea

**Been pretty slow with the updating, I'm hoping to get back into some sort of groove with writing again.**

 **ugh, wouldnt that be nice?**

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The vikings were very confused by the presence of the human baby in the Changewings' nest. The dragons weren't known for joining in on the frequent raids like so many other species, but their presence on the island was still worrisome.

Their young chief was very glad indeed that they decided to attack when they did, rescuing the infant before it could be eaten by the treacherous beasts.

Now the confused vikings gathered around to examine the baby girl. She seemed overall uninjured, though her clothes were in rags. Scrapped and torn, hardly sticking to her at all. It was a wonder she managed to survive out in the cold weather at night.

The warriors had managed to kill all but one of the adults, leaving two of the hatchlings to fly away with it. It was very unlikely they would return after that, though the chief would rather have gotten them all. Lest they fly to another island with a village and terrorize the vikings there.

Still, they managed to save the baby.

The big-bearded man looked the baby over closely, eyebrows ruffling.

"We haven't lost any children to dragons since. . ." Actually he couldn't remember the last time a baby was taken on a raid. He supposed they were too small for dragons to see as a good meal. Too well protected inside their homes and guarded by their families to be worth stealing.

"Young Eaven lost her baby last winter," His close friend reminded him, leaning over to look the girl over himself. Though even that baby had been lost to a fever, no chance this was her. "We've been rather lucky since then."

The red haired chief nodded at his blond companion, "She can't be one of ours."

But that still didn't answer the question.

Where did she come from?

They didn't have to wait long though, just across the clearing a viking with dark hair and a scratchy voice called out, "Oi! Stoick! Come take a look at this!"

The chief whose name was Stoick approached, easily holding the tiny infant against his chest as he climbed clear over the dead dragons' bodies to appear by the dark viking's side. At once he could see what the man was referring to.

A well worn basket, tightly nit along the bottom, stained from its time in the wild, pieces scratched and torn from its time exposed to a dragon nest.

And there, etched into the side: the form of Skrill taking flight.

"She's a Beserker," The hefty blond man, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Young Oswald seems to be following in his father's footsteps."

The vikings of Berk never took part in the culling of children so many other tribes of the Archipelago did. Too barbaric, even for them. The generations that came before them were lead by chiefs who understood the only way to stand strong is with other people.

Most vikings of Berk stuck their noses up at other tribes when the topic was brought up, but ultimately there wasn't much to be done about it.

Easy to ignore it and keep to their own.

Though for the most recent chief, this might have hit a little too close to home.

 _She was thrown out because she's a hiccup._

Too weak and small.

Weighing next to nothing, and shaking slightly in the weather.

The chief looked back down at the baby in his arms, who was now watching him quietly, comparing her to his own son waiting at home. He examined her the best he could and was quite shocked when he came to the conclusion, "She must be nearly a year old."

It wasn't often a squealing baby arrived on their shores in Berserker baskets. Or from any tribe that sent their babies off to be consumed by the harsh oceans. Even those who were rescued from the clashing waves didn't usually survive very long after.

"Beserkers are bad business, and we don't need another- -" The dark haired viking narrowed his eyes at the baby, only just refraining himself from calling her what he _really_ wanted and potentially insulting the chief. He continued instead with " _throwaway_. . . running around."

It was clear who he was talking about. There were very few hiccups washed on their shores, and still living, on berk. The most famous of which, a sour old man, discovered with the Outcast insignia on his basket when he washed ashore. He lived on the far side of the mountain, farming cabbages and sauntering into town once every week or so to complain to the chief about something or another.

The man by the name of Mildew was hated by all.

"What would you have us do, Spitelout?" Stoick glared back at the suggestion, "Throw her back into the sea?"

Spitelout did not answer. He simply grunted, staring at the baby with something akin to annoyance.

When he was not answered, Stoick moved on. His thoughts wandered as he closely examined her blue eyes.

Beserkers were known for their ferocity. The Island of Berk and the Beserker Tribe had been at peace for nearly ten years now, but some of the older warriors could still remember their skills in battle. It was not uncommon for Beserkers to file their teeth into sharp points in order to take out chunks of their enemies. Or take prisoners for no reason other than the entertainment of shoving them into rings with starving dragons captured in raids.

Mildew was not much help with anything, being raised as a cabbage farmer and sported a cowardly disposition.

But raised the right way, a _Beserker_ would be a warrior for them to be proud of.

The viking chief gave a small smile at her now. She had survived in a den of dragons for who knows how long. She wasn't going to die now. Besides, the only other living basket baby to wash on their shores became the long-living medicine woman and the wisest of the village elders.

His mind was made up, and he called back out to the surrounding warriors.

They had finished what they came to do.

They should be heading home now.


End file.
